Wednesday, August 25, 2021


After all the thick music 
and the black 
diary entries,

after Nobel prizes 
and new-critical analyses 
are accepted—

isn't a poem just 
a little machine:

a firework that displays
(in the flair of its plume)

one frame 
of a dream? 

Is it not "we" 
divided (unevenly) 
by "me,"

a form on a page
stalked offstage 
by a concept?

Or shall we make 
even easier to defend 

and claim it's 
just a novel 

with everything 
but the intensest feeling 
wrung out of it—

until all that's left 
is a curious pulp 

that molds
in our grip 

to the shape 
of deep